A Puppet Show
by DarakuNoMei
Summary: Weiss Schnee, heiress of the Schnee Dust Company, attends one of her father's social parties as normal, but the night does not go as expected.


Dead.

Everyone in the room is dead.

A hundred lifeless puppets, twirling on their strings in time to a merry little tune, dancing talking, laughing, drinking. Even a dropped glass, brilliantly shattering on the perfect tile floors is simply another marionette production. A servant dances over, bowing, the guest offers some small, apologetic joke, the waiter laughs—just like they have a thousand times before. Glass swept away and winding keys turned for another cycle.

Weiss Schnee hates them; hates the entire production. The painted smiles, the bowing men and fawning suitors… the women are better, she thinks. There is life there, just a flicker, behind those dead eyes and choreographed pleasantries-a coldness more living than anything else about their person—Hatred? Envy? Weiss cannot tell, it surfaces only in the briefest of moments, a moment of honesty swept away by a torrent of "So nice to see you, Miss Schnee"s.

Weiss stands near a wall, away from the crowds—often near windows. She likes to stare outside, it lets people avoid her, rude to disturb the young heiress's introspection after all, so much weight on such young shoulders, how brave, how splendid.

Weiss is dead too, she knows. A puppet like the rest, like her father, absorbing praise from the wealthiest of the wealthy, shaking hands, absolving fears. Like her mother, smiling and hurrying servants, eager to tell a fascinating story, or be an even more fascinated listener to guests. Her sister is no better, she wanders about the eastern wing, causing minor trouble in all three of the ball rooms, laughing too loudly and convincing grown men, entrepreneurs and presidents of conglomerates, to play childish games of hide and seek or dance. But this is a puppetry as well, Weiss knows her little sister has no fun at these parties, she is just the fool. A charming little puppet to make the other puppets chatter.

"How gay, how splendid."

"Ah to be a child again."

The thought makes Weiss sick, but she is a puppet too.

No, worse than a puppet. A trophy, a trinket… a prop. The puppets whirling around her will go home, they will take off their masks and strings, and for a few quiet moments, be alive once again, full of worries and hopes, secrets and passions. But this _is_ Weiss' home. A permanent stage. The others will go home, and her father will continue his marionette swirls behind the closed doors of a skyscraper. Her mother and little sister will continue their play of doting wife and sweet innocent child… and Weiss…

Weiss will return to her lessons, her training, her schoolwork, a performance without intermission, endlessly displaying the security of Schnee's next generation. That is who she is. That is all she is. She stares out the window, not wondering what lies in the dark night beyond the manicured and polished glass… she has no need for wondering, it is beyond her strings, and her strings are sewn on.

There is murmuring coursing through the ball room behind her, chattering puppets signaling the arrival of a new actor to the stage, another minor lord or CEO, military officer or politician. Weiss turns and looks the proper amount of interested and curious. A crowd has formed at the far end of the room near the door, to welcome whatever new presence has come to the house of the dead.

The Heiress walks in measured, perfect strides to a nearby table, where two men speak in a hushed tone, looking in the direction of the crowd. Deciding what puppet dance will carry their strings close enough to the new guest's presence to offer their well-rehearsed How-do-you-do's.

"Excuse me…" Weiss says in a soft, but confident tone.

The two men look up, quick to stand and offer her small bows. She blushes apologetically, a timid, elegant doe on strings. She has been able to blush on cue since she was six years old.

"Miss Schnee, forgive us for not noticing you sooner, my associate and I were simply absorbed in some unimportant chat." A bow of the head.

She smiles prettily, "Forgive me for interrupting you…" Not-at-all-not-at-all's. "… I was curious if you might know who's just arrived?"

The two exchange the briefest of glances, and for the smallest of moments as their eyes meet, their masks drop. There is something there, some worry, some hesitation… a tinge of fear. It knots Weiss' stomach, she is not used to puppets breaking character, but the moment passes and the men's smiles continue on as if they had not a care in the world.

"It seems Mr. Roman Torchwick, head of the Torchwick shipping syndicate, and his _associates_ have arrived from Vale."

Weiss' stomach shifts again. There is something going on here, an unfamiliar force, an alien influence tugging at puppet strings. She smiles, giving a small curtsey.

"Thank you kindly, sirs. Please do enjoy the party, I'm told the fig pudding our chef makes is the finest in the world."

The two men chuckle, and nod, and we-shall-we-shall.

Weiss excuses herself and wanders slowly in the direction of the crowd. Her strings do not move quickly, there is something like excitement deep in her heart, but greater than that is the unease. She is not designed for unexpected circumstances.

She idles for a while, pretending to appreciate a lovely flower arrangement on one of the tables, and stopping by the buffet table to ask a servant for a glass of water… A few sips, a few steps, the glass is taken away by a different waiter. She is close now, close enough to overhear the conversations taking place in the crowd around Torchwick—but far enough that it would be rude for anyone to call out or engage her.

Weiss knows Torchwick well. A man of industry, a man her father despises, but a trusted business partner. New money, built on an empire of railways, airships and cargo boats. He does not rival the Schnee family, no one does. But he has amassed a fortune and power with such speed and determination that even the old names must not cross strings with him when dancing.

For all his accomplishment, he is of no interest to Weiss. The source of his money does not make him any less dead than her father, or any other person in the room. He has a daughter, Neo, a mute girl a year younger than her sister. Weiss does not like her. She is silent in a way that extends beyond her lack of speech, she is more dead than most, a trinket on a shelf like Weiss herself… but there is something darker in her hollow, heterochromic eyes.

Weiss sees the flash of her pink hair amongst the crowd, and the orange hair of Torchwick as well. The unease within her begins to unwind, perhaps the men were simply overexcited at the prospect of getting into Torchwick's good graces. A normal and expected part of the play. Weiss adjusts the diamond bracelet adorning her gloved wrist, and sweeps her skirt with a gentle hand.

Torchwick is moving on to another Ball Room, going to find her father and offer praise to her mother the darling hostess. The crowd parts to let him through to the door, and Weiss takes a step to follow, part of her dance is to greet him, and escort Neo away to other parts of the party so that he and her father may do what their strings tell them to do.

The crowd continues to part, revealing Torchwick in his customary white suit, and Neo on his arm, and next to Neo…

Weiss dies.

A first in her shallow existence.

A woman stands next to Neo; a woman that does not belong. Weiss feels the raw terror of facing the unknown for the first time in her life. She has seen terrorists of the White Fang kill her relatives, and met people from lands most people outside of polite society would not even know exist—but this woman is different. Terrorists and kidnappers were a part of the play, a violent and bloody part to herd the masses, but here… here is something that had never even felt the touch of puppet strings… No—here is something that twisted, and tore, and burned away the strings of any puppet that ventured too close.

Her skin is a soft pale cream, brushed with the gentlest of olive. Her hair dark locks run past her shoulder, draped perfectly forward to one side and covering her left eye. There are streaks of a soft jade tone at the tips.

She wears a dress, short and deepest crimson, with a slit up to the hip on one side; covered by crossing laces and capped by a gem in a flurry of blue and green feathers. A completely inappropriate clothing choice for the occasion. But the way it hugs her slim form, the way she wears it—go beyond the realm of questioning, or occasion-appropriate. It belongs on her… and she belongs wherever she deigns to step.

Her legs are long, and just shapely enough, and the effortless way her rich, chocolate-colored heels tap the floor makes the imported tile of the ball room seem cheap. The ring of dust-emptied gems clinking at her ankle and the black silk choker around her neck, draw every eye in sight to her with nearly unbearable insistence.

But Weiss' gaze slips over all these things, and are trapped in the Woman's eyes.

She is not looking at Weiss, she isn't looking at anyone, simply staring out into the ball room beyond Weiss' back… bored, unimpressed… Alive.

Alive with a fury. A burning life, chaotic and primal. Weiss has seen the look previously, when she is allowed to go fox or duck hunting with her father to keep up appearances and prove she has not wasted her shooting lessons. This is the look that sometimes enters the eyes of their hounds when they remember, if only for a moment, that they once roamed free and wild.

But they are nothing to the feral hunger behind the woman's eye. A wild tiger would be nothing.

Weiss trembles softly, her legs feel weak, and nausea fills her. Her strings are tangled, she must step away, excuse herself, must say she is feeling under the weather and retreat to her rooms. But she cannot move, she cannot breath, she fights back tears.

The woman's gaze slide sideways, panning towards Weiss, and Weiss knows that when they touch her, she will burst into flame and be scorched away into ash. Closer and closer they inch, for the young heiress, an eternity standing before the roaring inferno.

The woman's uncovered eye hits her, but it does not stop. It does not even slow. It passes through her, scanning the rest of the ball room… and then the woman turns to follow Torchwick and Neo out into the hall.

Relief floods Weiss, her stomach loosens and she manages to turn with some small amount of grace away from the crowd and door, walking to a nearby window. Her breathing is fast, her face searing… she can see, even in the dark reflection of the window, that a true flush covers her face. Her entire body is warm… but somehow she feels cold. She feels empty, empty in a way she has never felt before.

Weiss feels like for the first time, she truly understands what it means to be 'dead'. To be nothing more than a puppet. The urge to cry is overwhelming, she wipes the tears quickly away, disguised as adjusting her hair. In her mind, the scene plays over and over, ten times, twenty, a hundred. That single golden-yellow eye, coming towards her, threatening to burn her… sliding passed her. There is something wrong, something terrible about it. Her chest aches painfully. She needs it to be different…

She wants to be burned. She needs to be burned.

A young female servant passes by, careful to lower her gave and not disturb Weiss, but the heiress calls out to her.

"What may I do for you, Miss Schnee?"

Weiss does not look away from the window, her breathing is normal and the flush has faded from her pale face, but the pain is still there in her chest, threatening to crush her under its weight.

"Who is the woman in the red dress escorting Mr. Torchwick and his daughter?" she asks. Her family's servants are no ordinary help. They are informed, well trained, ready to assist at a moment's notice.

The young woman hesitates, something Weiss has never seen a Schnee servant do, but somehow, it doesn't really matter to her anymore. Nothing does.

"…I've been told she is… a very wealthy business partner of Mr. Torchwick's. A clothing and gem designer famed in Vale and Mistral….Cinder Fall."

Weiss' heart flutters at the name, the ache grows stronger. She can see the woman's reflection in the window lower her gaze.

"And?"

The woman steps forward, speaking very quietly, "…There are rumors she runs the criminal Underworld of both cities…and smaller operations in Vacuo and here in Atlas. A woman wealthier than Mr. Torchwick and one of the most powerful people in the world."

"Thank you." Weiss says softly.

The woman bows herself away, hurrying off to resume her dance.

Weiss can tell she's been broken. There is something wrong with her.

Details of the woman flood back to her, the way the dress hugs her waist, the soft curve of her legs and the deep black choker against the sloping lines of her neck, the perfectly placed eyeliner…. The shape of her collar bones… the soft pink of her lips.

Weiss' face is flushed again, she shivers softly; her legs feel unsteady.

She stares out into the night, in a desperate fight to mentally reconnect her strings, to rejoin the dance and return to her place on the shelf. But she can't. She knows that. She knows that she will never be able to being that marionette ever again. She is already burning… already caught in the tall flames.

New strings have wrapped around her. They tear at her, choke her… drag her in a single, unchanging direction.

She turns to go and greet Mr. Torchwick and his associate.


End file.
